


sarcasm

by felicities



Category: Sports Night
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2020-02-26 12:19:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18716950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicities/pseuds/felicities
Summary: 50-day fic challenge.day three prompt: 'sarcasm.'





	sarcasm

His favorite thing about her has always been her wit.

 

She possesses an eloquence that seeps out of her pores and drips off her limbs and a vocabulary that stretches endlessly. Her words can create the most gorgeous prose and the most beautiful poetry, rendering whoever listens to her speechless and in awe.

 

But she also possesses a sharp tongue, one that cuts deeply and leaves you bleeding. Her words can be biting and caustic; they can wound and scar and tear you apart. They are her greatest weapon, her strongest barricade, her most efficient deterrent.

 

He’s seen her use words as a weapon only once. In college, she dated a string of assholes. Obviously and inevitably, all of them broke her heart. She never cried – at least never publicly – but her replies were always snarky and vicious, always coated with sarcasm and mockery, always meant to inflict pain.

 

But now, as he stares into her eyes, his breathing erratic and his heart pounding violently, he sees her do it again. He listens to her hurl one acidic, mordant remark after another.

 

He doesn’t talk back, doesn’t say anything. He’s tired—tired of fighting, tired of yelling, tired of saying things that he knows he will immediately come to regret. He’s tired, but still he listens. He listens and he understands (tries to understand) what she is telling him (trying to tell him) because he knows that she is hurt. And what’s more, he knows that _he_ hurt _her_.

 

He has always been taller than her, always towered over her, but now, _right now_ , between her intensifying gaze and her cracking, breaking voice, he feels minute and powerless. He feels like he is going to combust if she looked at him for much longer. Like his knees are going to buckle any time soon, and she will pierce holes into his back and his head by her mere stare.

 

She stops talking— _stops yelling_ —and she sighs. She drops her head and stares at her shoes instead, but he continues to look at her. Before he can stop himself, he closes the distance between them and pulls her to him, his hands rubbing smooth, comforting circles on her back.

 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into her hair. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t stifle a sob either. Warm, moist tears spill out of her eyes, slowly soaking a portion of his shirt.

 

He doesn’t seem to mind. Still, he pulls away and lifts her chin. He looks straight into her eyes ( _sea foam green_ , he described them once) and she looks right back at him—her breathing shallow, her cheeks wet, her eyes searching. He takes a deep breath and presses his lips to hers. Her eyes flutter shut and for a moment, neither of them moves.

 

For a moment, the kiss stands still—just the feeling of their lips meeting and the quick, tattered beating of their hearts.

 

Without warning, she wraps her arms around his neck; his around her waist, pulling each other closer. She deepens the kiss and he cups her cheek. Their mouths move in such synchronicity, tongues duelling, and then, suddenly and forcefully, she pulls away.

 

“ _Casey_ ,” she says. She isn’t angry. She isn’t upset. But the way she says his name suggests a tiredness, defeat perhaps, or a surrender. She looks at him with glassy eyes and sighs. “We can’t.”

 

He nods; he _knows_. He knows that they can’t and he knows _why_ they can’t. They’ve done it before and things did not end well and he doesn’t want that to happen again.

 

He runs his hands down her arm, soothing her, comforting her, and kisses the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Dana,” he says again.

 

For a moment they just stand there, saying nothing, doing nothing—just the feeling of his arms around hers and the quick, tattered beating of their hearts. 


End file.
